


Inked

by HellenHighwater



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Max's tattoo, Max/Furiosa is ambiguious, We Are Not Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellenHighwater/pseuds/HellenHighwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max doesn't know what they wrote on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

**Author's Note:**

> Tag to the night at the edge of the Plains of Silence, a while after Furiosa has talked to Max about the motorcycles. 
> 
> Because Max probably doesn't know what they did to him.

The wasteland is too cold at night. It's part of the hell of the place, being always too cold or too hot. The wives and the Vuvalini huddle together, charmed at the newness of each other. The WarBoy and Capable have found their own island of light in the blue darkness, tangled together and whispering. Furiosa can see already how that must end: becoming Imperator had taken seven thousand endless days, and she'd outlived more WarBoys than she could count. She can almost see the countdown on poor Nux: he had three, maybe four years left in him, if he was unlucky. If he was lucky, he'd be blessed with a quick death before the half-life withered him away into a husk. She'd never cared for the death-lust Immortan Joe fostered in his waifish warriors, but she couldn't argue that a swift end on the road was better than the half-life. But for now Nux and Capable had each other, and who is she to deprive them of a precious few moments of kindness? They certainly both deserved more than they'd had.

Like a mother bird counting chicks, Furiosa makes sure their little party is settled before looking for a resting place of her own. The only one not nestled in for the night is their mad Fool, who's sat with his shoulders hunched on the far side of the War Rig. He twitches, shifting his focus between his lap and the horizon, keeping watch for a war party they both know is coming. His hands are broad and filthy, fidgeting like he can't stop himself.

She's never seen him still, really, and that's a dangerous thing in their hungry world. Burning that fast was a sure way to burn out, but he's also strong. Strong enough to take on the Bullet Farmer alone, and brave enough to do it without hesitating. Or maybe just mad enough. Either way, he was one of the few reliable things right now. She's not sure if it was that reliability or something else entirely that made her want to turn back to find him when they'd gotten the rig cooled enough. But he'd come back on his own, with guzzoline and bullets enough for all of them.

And he'd slept, eventually, though she could tell it was the sleep of exhaustion, not of comfort. After the day they'd all had, and the amount of blood he'd lost to Nux, as well as whatever he'd gone through before being strapped to the front of a WarBoy car as a bloodbag, it was a wonder he had kept going as long as he had. But perhaps that was the madness too. Even his sleep was riddled with breaks, old wounds rising to the surface of his dormant mind.

What was it he had said when they'd spoken earlier? _“If you can't fix what's broken, you'll go insane.”_

She wondered what had broken him.

He didn't have a blanket. He didn't need one as badly as the rest of them, of course—his shirt covered his arms, and he had a jacket to go over it. But the temperatures could get cold enough to kill, some nights, and it wasn't smart to risk loosing one of their best fighters to something so simple as night wind.

The Fool's fingers reach around, tugging at the back hem of his shirt, and she can see a wince cross his face. Had he been injured fighting the Bullet Farmer after all?

She comes around from his left side, feet scuffing in the sand loudly enough to keep him from startling. His head whips up, and his hand comes around front like he'd been caught at something.

She crouches down to his level, to speak as equals. “May I see?”

His eyes are dark in the starlight, moving across her face restlessly, and it's a long moment before he fumbles at the hem of his jacket. He sets it neatly in the sand beside himself, with the sort of care a person gives to the only posessions have in the whole world. All she can see is the top of his dark sandy hair. He doesn't lift his head after he's drawn the worn shirt off, keeps his chin tucked and eyes averted as he bares his dirty skin. It's not shame, exactly, there's no room for that here, maybe wariness. She can see the glint of his eyes through his lashes. Carefully, she shifts around him to see whatever damage there is to his back.

It's not a wound like she thought, though he's well covered in scrapes and bruises. It's fresh ink, still raised and ridged, blood weeping from crude lines. At the top of it, there's the flaming wheel and skull of the Holy Veaite,(1) which the Warlord uses as his sigil. It's all messy,(2) like he'd been thrashing around when they got him with the brand. She lays the fingertips of her hand on the reddened skin beside the mark. It's hot, but not too inflamed. Her fingers trail down along the black lines, skipping over the ink to touch the unmarked skin. All fine. No infection.

He shudders under her touch in a way that's not quite a movement as a further clenching of already over-tight muscles. He's suppressing the urge to speak. The urge to run.

She understands.

She moves out of her crouch to kneel at his side, in a place she can see both his drawn, downturned face and the tangled markings of his back. Gently, she places her hand on his shoulder. It's a grounding touch, not meant to investigate the state of his body so much as offer anchor to his mind. Surprise turns his face upwards, and his eyes meet hers involuntarily.

“Would you like me to read it?” Furiosa asks. He won't have had a chance to see it himself, the way things have been going. He deserves the right to know the words he'll carry for the rest of his life.

His eyes are still locked on hers when he nods. They drop back to the sand as soon as she starts reading, her voice pitched low. She sets her metal hand on his knee to keep him grounded as she traces her index finger under the words she's reading so he knows where they are.

“ 'Day 12045. Height: 10hands. 180 pounds. No name. No lumps. No bumps. Full life. Clear. Two good eyes. No busted limbs. Piss okay. Genitals intact. Multiple scars. Heals fast. O-negative high-octane universal donor. Lone Road Warrior rundown on the Powder Lakes. V8. No guzzoline. No supplies. Isolate. Psychotic. Keep muzzled. ' ”

She puts her hand back on his bowed shoulder when she's done, and he's still, stiller than she's ever seen him. He's a bit of a wonder and a mystery, their poor battered Fool. It's rare to find anyone as whole as he is, especially that's survived to his age. If it weren't for the madness he'd be a prime specimen.

_Keep muzzled._

He must have fought like the very devil when they caught him.

“ 'We are not things.' ”

The words sit heavy in the night air. The Fool looks at her, waiting for an explanation. She gives him one.

“Angharad—the Splendid—said it. Said it often. It's why all of us are here. Because we are not things, and no one, including Immortan Joe, owns us.”

Her grip is strong on his shoulder as she says, “You are not a thing either.”

She stands, using her grip on him to lever her aching body upright. It has been a hard day.

He catches her wrist, eyes searching. “Thank you.” His voice is low, rough. He doesn't say what he's thanking her for.

He doesn't need to. She nods. There is an understanding between them, road warriors who are things no more.

She can hear him putting his clothes back on. She'll bring him a blanket. Maybe he'll sleep. She'll sit watch over him while he does. He deserves someone to watch over him. Someone to guard his back, the way he has guarded hers. And the next day they would go their separate ways. For tonight, she could choose to give him this. As thanks.

He deserved thanks, their mysterious Fool, who did the hard things even when no one asked him to. He chose to protect them, when he had no reason to other than that they'd treated him like a person. But they are not things. He is not a thing. Together, they will keep each other safe. At least for tonight.

 

* * *

 

(1) V8. I'm playing with their language.

(2) I'm assuming they finished up where they left off after they pulled Max back off that hook thing.


End file.
